Can't Breathe
by ink-of-the-written
Summary: The two of you had just escaped from a villain that dealt in psychiatric manipulation. It only had you in its power for a moment, perhaps just under a minute, but it had resurfaced old memories that had never resolved in your mind. As you are paralyzed by your own mind, the Doctor tries to bring you back to the present. Critiques VERY welcome. Help me make this better, pls
1. Chapter 1

The two of you had escaped from a villain that dealt in psychiatric manipulation.

Once the two of you had figured out its trade, there was an unspoken agreement that you'd be the one to keep him busy while the Doctor did something clever to put an end to its stolen powers of the mind. He'd know what needed to be done to eliminate its powers, and there was less trauma in your head than his.

It only had you in its power for a moment, perhaps just under a minute, but it had resurfaced old memories that had never resolved in your mind. Old hurts that healed only by forgetting, and even then, that didn't really count as healing, did it? Does a bruise cease to exist because you forgot to check up on it, or does it vanish over time? You learned that all the bruises were still there. How could you have forgotten…You reason that you should have, and you did, and there was nothing wrong with this kind of distraction. And, boy, the distractions gave you the best times of your life. Adventures consumed your state of being every moment—identity defining, breathtaking—"Y/N? Are you hearing me? Honestly, being held in the grips of a black-market weapons dealer who just happens to be able to open the mental equivalent of Pandora's box of everything negatively mnemonic inside of your head shouldn't be enough to incapacitate your ability to communicate." Your head jerked up minutely at his voice, and your eyes met his, barely registering him through the fog thickening your mind. "Beg your pardon, what did you say?" Your perception of everything seems to slow down and speed up simultaneously. The sounds don't seem to be coming from your mouth.

 _You remember how the hurt felt._

When you blink, it takes longer than you think but is over faster than you expect it.

 _Old scars of betrayal resurface in networks of sickening white veins, pulsing with memories and emotions and promises._

The heart in your chest is thumping wildly. Sound is drowned out by the rush of blood that warms your ears until they burn _. Feelings of pointlessness, hopelessness, uncertainty assault you in waves_.

 _They knew that it hurt you, but they continued anyway. They just wouldn't stop…didn't understand…_

 _Why won't they listen?_

 _Are you certain of this? Are you certain of anything? Who are you?_

 _What are you?_

An up-down tension begins between your collarbones, but the reason for it does not register.

 _How wrong you always are—everything you do. Everything you touch._ You _are the wrong._

The suction in your throat increases in futility and you're frozen.

 _People never understood you because you can never tell them. It's not their fault, never was. Nothing was ever their fault, it was all YOURS._ _ **YOU**_ _are WRONG._

You cannot move any limb and the pressure in your chest increases. A loud voice penetrates the air a little above your right ear, and you nearly jump out of your skin. "Y/N, I said, are you alright?" Your head tilts back in a short, small jerking motion, and he sees the chords standing out in your neck, straining and retracting in violent pulses. Color has risen in your cheeks, giving you a flushed, pink countenance.

A desperation you can't place has caused your mouth to drop open.

 _Remember when they said they believed in you? Remember when they left you?_

 _Remember when **you left them?**_

"Wha—Y/N, are you malfunctioning?" Boney hands grip both of your shoulders as the light of the TARDIS column is blocked by the Doctor's form. Darkness. "Look at me, Y/N. It's me, the Doctor. What's happening, what do you feel?" The urgency in his voice does little to comfort you…it scares you further.

 _The people you built yourself with are gone. They moved on, and you are forgotten._

 _You are nothing now. You are the wrong._

A green light pulses in rectangular panels around your face, and you recognize the Doctor's sonic screwdriver vaguely. Your eyes barely shift, but now they've focused out of the TARDIS column's background lighting and into the shadow of the Doctor's face. You see his concern and the urgency in his eyes. "Y/N it's all in your head. You need to breathe."

 _You always get it wrong._

His face splits in a wide grin and he hops back and forth nervously in front of you, his hands fanned at head-level. "Remember breathing? It's a good thing—that's why we do it. In, out, in out and all that. I expect you've had 70-something years of practice by now." His sonic beeps and he looks at the screen—

 _You fail at the simplest things._

 _Remember when you had friends? You are ALONE because you couldn't keep them._

"If you don't breathe soon you're going to collapse and then I'll have to catch you and lie you down and that'll just be awkward for the both of us. Actually it won't be very awkward for you, because you'll be unconscious."

"Please. Don't do this to yourself."


	2. Chapter 2

It takes all of your focus to comprehend what he's saying.

The pressure on your esophagus is borderline unbearable. Your body convulses with the breathes it cannot take. "Alright, different tactic." He takes your hands, and you notice his are actually warm. Warm, as if they were human hands. His brow furrows slightly at the temperature he clearly noticed as well, but he continues. "Everything the weapons dealer recalled within your head is not _you_ anymore. It preys on the demons you've already conquered. It's not real, not anymore." You begin to collapse sideways but he steadies you and pulls you close. His long arms wrap around your back, and your head falls against his black jumper. It's softer than you remember, and it smells of the TARDIS, of him, of chalk dust, of old books…and the tea he spilled onto himself earlier that day. The pair of you had laughed, laughed in the golden sunlight of the cozy café as he dabbed the napkin into the black jacket in futility. Scent…

He holds you close, more in support than affection. He's still not a hugging person, and he knows you aren't either. The face he'd seen, an unmoving mask of uncomprehensive madness…it was a kind of terror that hypnotizes and fascinates you rather than frightens you. It held you fast. Fear was far different than disbelief. He feels your body fighting for oxygen, and he resists the urge to send you to sleep. It would grant physical relief, but right now, trapping his companion in a tormented mind was the last thing his friend needed. Imprisonment in blackness was far worse than a prison enabling the registry of color and scent and touch.

You freeze suddenly within his embrace.

He nods his head down and speaks softly into your hair. "That's it. _Breathe_."

You're able to lift the ton of invisible weight that had been crushing your chest, and your throat feels as though it could burst. A deep breath pounds its way into your esophagus, expanding everything that had been so constricted for that small malicious eternity. There is relief, but there is also pain. Finding you can stand on your own, you break away from his embrace and grasp the railing, coughing as though you had bronchitis and feeling streaks of pain skitter their way up your core. You finish shortly, with a raw throat and slight lightheadedness. Raising your head from the rail, you hear the Doctor's voice sound from the console. "Let's try again, shall we?"

You look at him patiently, albeit exhaustedly.

"Are you alright?"

A small smile graces your lips. "Yes, I believe I am."

"I had just been explaining that you might experience a sudden rush of every bad thing that's ever happened to you psychologically as an effect of our friend's cheap mind games." He took a breath, clearly venturing past the lines he'd carefully drawn. _Don't get emotional_.

"Over the course of our experiences we naturally put up barriers to repel that which caused us pain. If we didn't our minds would be so flooded with despondent things we'd drown any light or hope in our lives, and then nothing would get done. We'd never move on."

Silence.

"How rubbish would that be?"

You make your way over to the console in silence, still smiling tiredly. It had been a long day. He respects your silences, and never thinks less of you for them. You wonder why he travels with the damaged ones, even if they're so good at hiding it. _He knows I'm not perfect—that I'm far from it—that I am stained. What will he do…? No. He doesn't know, doesn't need too…but he can guess._ Until today, the pair of you had never had an experience as intimate as this.

Now that he knows you're a little broken, does he still want you around?

 _What if he asks…?_

His voice penetrates your thoughts, drawing you back to the present. _Maybe he can tell when I get too far out—too far off. Somehow he always begins his babblings at the times when I need them most._ "You might be a tad depressed until the effects wear off. After all, you've just re-felt everything bad you've experienced all at once."

Further silence. You've slipped back into your head without noticing.

 _A tad depressed? It's not an introduction, it's a reinstatement. Throw out the welcome mat; my house is your house. Take all my memories, extract my spirit…everything I ever was is now at your disposal. More of a "hello darkness my old friend" moment than a surprise. More of the uncertainty. More of the teetering on the edge. More of not knowing if you've gone mad—I don't know if I can make it a second time around—_

You feel his eyes on you and snap out of it, meeting his…those light blue/gray that remind you of a winter's morning, crisp and fresh and cold enough to tingle your spine. But you see patience and calm where you usually see judgement and amusement from other members of your race. _When you usually see_ _ **mocking**_ _._

"Sorry. Processing."

He bows his head and goes back to making the odd adjustment. "Processing what? All and everything? The fabric of reality? The formation of the universe? I can show you, if you like." He smiles up at you, receiving your fond grin. "Processing…floods and barricades and drowning in sorrows untold." In his speech, he draws out the "l" and softly enunciates the "d".

"What d'you make of it?"

You lean your elbows onto the console, and he sees the sparkle that usually is the harbinger of a joke or terrible pun you'd thought up not milliseconds before. It's good to have you back. God, he couldn't bear it if he lost you too—lost your spirit to the abundance of bad and hate and evil and greed that life seems intent on pairing with any form of good and light and compassion…and purity.

"It's not the best option, but, Dam."


End file.
